She Called Him Her Angel
by Solitaire-Me
Summary: Chrstine finds that her heart will not allow her to forget the one who swept her songs away to heaven, and seeks to reunite with Him once more. But could it be too late? EC
1. I Cry for Only You

Disclaimer: Obviously, I am not Gaston Levoux. Nor Andrew Lloyd Webber. Thus, I do not own Erik or any of the Phantom of the Opera. (Sadly..)

A/N: This story contains E/C pairing. Don't like it? Sorry, but you'll have to deal with it, and read no further. Also, this is based mostly off of the movie. As I'm only half way through the book right now, and I unfortunately haven't had the opportunity to see it on stage quite yet. So I'm sticking to what I know so I -hopefully- don't mess anything up too badly. Thus if anything written is not accurate to the stage performance or book - Try to grit your teeth and bare with me, please. )

Chapter 1:  
I Cry for Only You

He could see her soft face, He could hear her lofty voice. So clear, and perfect in the darkness that encompassed him. Yet, she was fading.. And with her face, her song.. No matter how far he reached his hand, he could not touch her.

He wanted to scream at that face with a fury that could fuel the sun. Yet he could not as he came to find, for perhaps the first time since his arrival to these catacombs, that he could not find his voice.

He felt as though he couldn't breath, his stomach tightened into a knot that rolled in discomfort and made him feel ill.

The corners of his eyes, they burned.

His temples ached as he struggled against the loathed tears that screamed to escape for what seemed to be the hundredth time that very night.

"I gave you everything I knew.. And yet you gave me nothing.. But as hard as I try.. You will not be gone! I know I should not.. Yet I still forgive you.. No matter how hard I struggle.. This accursed spell just won't be lifted..! Damn you.. I love you.."

"Christine.."

* * *

Here she was again. Sitting atop the steps of her father's tomb once more, her dress fanned out on the ground soiled in the autumn mud and leaves. The placid sky above her was gray and empty, unlike the cracked and flaking stone of the tombs that spread across the gravel grounds of the cemetery.

Young miss Christine Daaé was an angel in this morose garden of weathered marble and overgrown vines. The black velvet of her mourning gown contrasted perfectly with the white of her pallid complexion.

Slowly a hand sheathed in black lace lowered a red rose to the steps of the tomb where her father slept. _I come here everyday.. _She thought, _I come here to pray.. To cry.. _Yet today, she could not bring herself to do any of those things.

Raoul had been gone again on more business in London. They were to be married come this December.. And yet, she felt as though she were a widow. He was always gone.. And even when with her, his mind seemed as if it were very far away, while placed her on a pedestal like a trophy won in some petty competition. Had she had lost her childhood sweetheart somewhere in the burning corridors of the Opera Populaire nearly 6 months ago? Had she really made the right- She stopped her thoughts quickly.

Why? Why did her thoughts always return to that horrible place? That wonderful place..

Slender fingers placed themselves gently on the soft skin of her forehead above a brow that gathered in frustration, and what may have been a hint of fear.

She could still see those eyes. Those golden eyes. And that face that constantly followed her with such a pleading gaze. She could not shake Him! And every time she thought of Him, her heart ached with a most powerful hurt she could never forget, though she tried.

His last words still rang in her ears, and haunted her dreams.

"You alone can make my song take flight.."

"It's over now - The Music of the Night!"

Oh! How excruciating those words were every time she heard them!

Raoul called Him a monster. Society called Him a murderer. She obediently called Him both.

But at night she sat at her vanity, almost hoping to look into her reflection and see His gazing back at her- So adoringly as He had done before. She almost _hoped_ He would sing to her once more. Just one time more if nothing else.

So, to herself, she secretly called Him an Angel.

Did she miss this man? No! Of course not! She had been nothing more than a victim under His terrible spell.. That's what her Vicomte du Chagny said. And, of course, that's what she believed.

But there He was again, and she felt a wetness, a drop of water stream from the corner of her eye to the corner of her pink lips.. A tear that she could not have given her father this day.. But could, without second thought, for _Him_.

* * *

So there you have it. The first chapter of my first Phantom of the Opera "phanphiction". I hope you all like it. I know it was a bit short/not much happened, but you've got to start somewhere.

Also, I love comments and suggestions.


	2. Lattice and Lace

_Disclaimer: Obviously, I am not Gaston Levoux. Nor Andrew Lloyd Webber. Thus, I do not own Erik or any of the Phantom of the Opera. (Sadly..)_

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed chapter 1! I love you all. XD I'll try my best to not dissapoint. ;) also, about the grammar thing - I know, everytime I go back and read chapter one I always find one more mistake I missed while editing it (Which I swear I did at LEAST 10 times.) I'll try my best to avoid that, but it seems to always be my curse when I write. Thanks again to all those who reviewed!  
_

**Chapter 2:**

****

**Lattice and Lace**

The loud knock at the door stirred Christine from her sleep on the luxuriously plush loveseat set in her large room. The light that shone through the white lace curtains caused her to squint her eyes and she wondered how long she had been asleep.

She recalled returning home the evening before and retiring to her room rather early. She found a book half open atop her ruffled bodice, a thin hand still resting over the hard cover. She remembered she had sat down to read and must have fallen asleep, unknowing of how very tired she had really been.

Another knock from the front door brought her from her thoughts and she stood quickly to straighten herself out, in case it were a caller there to see her. Unlikely as it was. She moved to the armoire and pulled out a lavender dress so light it was nearly white. It was one of the many gifts given to her by Raoul since her arrival to his flat, and was most definitely one of her favorite gowns. The man really was very sweet..

With a little help from a maid, she put herself into a corset and slipped the gown on over her undergarments. She felt like a doll every time she was forced into this uncomfortable attire. Forced to wear what is found to be "proper", no matter the circumstances.

"There is someone here to see you, Mademoiselle Daaé." A young maid came to the door, speaking with a timid voice and bow, her eyes set on the ground shyly. Christine smiled and nodded to her, letting out a little squeak as the older, more scruff maid ruthlessly tightened the back of her lavender dress. "T-Thank you.. Um." She paused, giving the girl an inquisitive gaze, she had been in the house for nearly half a year, and still had not been able to learn all the names of the many helping hands that made up the Vicomte's home.

"Eliza." The girl piped.

"Thank you Eliza." She let out a slight sigh of relief as the dressing was finished and she picked up a small, lace fan from her vanity, proceeding to the first floor without another word.

Who would be coming to see _her_? She was so used to company always being for her Vicomte. But he was far from Paris right now. Christine could not help but feel at times that she had disappeared from the face of the earth to all who had once known her. Raoul just overshadowed her so much since her seemingly permanent retire from the Opera.. Though it had been greatly against her wishes.

She glided down the steps, toward the front doors, but stopped with a shocked gasp at who she saw standing in that doorway.

"Hello Christine.." Meg Giry spoke warmly to her long-time friend, a weary smile worn on her small, delicate face.

"Meg!" Christine exclaimed throwing her arms out to embrace her friend, forgetting all the good manners of a soon-to-be-countess. "I have missed you so much!"

Meg laughed and returned the embrace happily. "I have missed you too, Christine. Everyone has." Christine smiled at the thought of all her friends from the Opera, so they still thought about her.. But just as she was about to ask her friend about Mme Giry and the others, Meg interrupted her.

"But that's not why I'm here, Christine."

It was then that young miss Daaé noticed the single, withered rose she held in her petite hands - a black velvet ribbon tied about its green stem.

-

Meg told her all about cleaning up after the accident, and that for awhile there was question that the Opera could even be used again. Finally they had been able to move the shattered chandelier out of the audience seating and had repaired much of the damage that had been caused. Though there was still much damage left from the fire and much more renovating was needed. Many of the workers still wondered if they would be able to repair a gaping hole that had been burned in the center of the stage.

9;

All the while, there had been no sign nor sound of the Opera Ghost. Many believed he had died that night in the cellars. Possibly, he had been caught in a fire, or had even committed suicide to avoid being caught.. Or for other reasons. Mme Giry refused to acknowledge him or the strange happenings before that night ever since Christine's final performance.

Christine turned the rose over in her hands, many of Meg's words going in one ear and out the other. Until, that is, at the mention of the infamous Opera Ghost who had once plagued her dreams so long ago.

Meg paused a moment between words, her eyes drifting to the rose that Christine held in her hands. "Christine.. I found that rose in your dressing room the night of _Don Juan Triumphant_. It was after you and Raoul had gone, and the fire had been extinguished.." She seemed to hesitate, as if afraid to mar her friend's emotions. "No one ever told me who those roses were from- But that night, I just _knew_. I know this may be hard.. But who was he Christine? What happened all those nights? I just.. Need to know."

Her eyes remained static on the blackened petals, and Christine's whole form seemed to become as motionless as the marble pillar she sat next to. Like a petrified rabbit ready to run, she remained still. She was shocked at the sudden flurry of questions. She didn't want to speak of it, she never did. She only wanted to forget those nights, but she felt as though she owed an explanation to her closest, and dearest friend.

"I suppose.." She began, "He was.. A piteous murderer with a hopeless obsession.."

"An obsession for you." The pieces were slowly beginning to come together for the girl formerly known as Little Meg. She had only known small parts of what had happened, and hoped to find the missing pieces that left her in such puzzlement. There seemed to be a sort of sadness that overcame the young girl as she spoke the next few words. "And he loved you… Did he? Mama said so when I asked her.. And she would tell me nothing more."

Her friend did not nod, her eyes slowly climbing upwards to Meg's pale face. "But it is over now. He is gone." She surmised quickly. By looking at Meg's face, she realized how hard the past several months must have really been. She appeared as though she had matured much over six months, and small bags under her eyes were beginning to show.. She needed sleep. "Perhaps we should speak another time.. You look exhausted dear Meg." Christine stood, relieved for the change of subject but was soon drawn back as Meg just gazed at her through her brown eyes.

"Did you love him? Did you love him in return Christine?" She asked this in a way as if Christine were a little girl who had stolen cookies from the cookie jar.

The hard stare from Meg startled and worried Christine, and all words seemed to escape her.


	3. Return to Me, Sweet Angel

Disclaimer: Read the first and second chapter.. It's the exact same thing.

**Chapter 3:**

****

Return to Me, Sweet Angel

It was a dark and foggy day that threatened rain as Christine watched the towering form of the Opera Populaire slowly nearing as the carriage she rode approached it. The stone walls still held strong, but many windows were broken out and boarded up with thick wood, the walls around them charred to a charcoal black.

The stone angels and statues still perched like the gargoyles they were on the roof, and even from the street Christine could see the huge statue that was Apollo holding his mythical lyre.

She still held the withered rose.

Most would be excited to return to a place filled with old friends and memories, while others might be frightened because of the unaccountable nightmares that had taken place there. However, Christine felt nothing as the horses trotted down that cobblestone path, at least not yet. Her mind was still days before, upon the unexpected visit from her dear friend Meg Giry.

"Nonsense, Meg!" Christine had exclaimed in what could have been read as true horror. "My God, of course not! I love Raoul. I always have and always will! That man had me deceived up till the very last moment."

There had been a moment of silence from her friend before the small girl stood in a way, which was unlike her, that made her seem a foot taller, and a thousand times stronger. "I saw you on that stage, Christine. During the performance of Don Juan Triumphant. In the arms of that mysterious man with the angelic voice.. Can you truly tell me, can you honestly tell your Meg, that the smile you wore upon your face, and the way you had clung to him had been nothing more than part of the act?"

"…" Christine once again was speechless, but not for long. "Why are you asking me this, Meg? I only wish to forget!"

"But you cannot."

"No one will allow me to!"

"Who? Who has been in your way till now?"

Christine hesitated, tears slowly making way. Then suddenly she cried out, "Those eyes! That pitiful face! That voice which never leaves my mind, but now seems dead!" Christine almost screamed. She clasped her eyes shut and grasped at the hair on either side of her head, like there was a demon that possessed her and refused to leave. She had collapsed once more into the chair, holding herself as tears had begun to stream down her face. "He had begged me.. Beseeched me to love him, Meg.. But I could not.."

Meg had gone to her friend's side, though she did not seem to regret her words. "Why..?"

"It would not be right..! Raoul was my childhood sweetheart. The one who rescued my scarf." She paused, "Erik and I.. We could never have been together and at peace.. It would not have been right.." Yet even as Christine spoke, her eyes clung to the rose that had fallen to the ground as if willing it with her mind to bring her Angel's voice.

"Erik.."

Christine came once again to reality as the carriage door had been opened for her by the driver. With a nod and a half-hearted smile, she descended the tiny step ladder to the street. Then hurriedly walked up the steps of the Opera House, her skirt brushing against the hard, short stairs. Her hand hesitated at the handle of the door, and almost pulled back, but resolution overtook her and she held her head up high and walked through that doorway with confidence..

Inside were many people moving about the main entrance, many of whom she did not recognize and thus did not recognize her in turn. They were coming this way and that, going up and down the grand staircase, carrying tools and wood, and lanterns used to light darkened corners. As she ventured deeper into her former sanctuary, the growing awareness of her insolence tugged at the edges of her mind.

She knew if Raoul had been aware of what she was doing, he would be furious.. But she could not deny it any longer. She had to come back. Everything about the place was calling to her. The stage, her old dressing room, her old friends- Why even the velvet curtains and lace lamp shades seemed to call her name!

And then there were the cellars. And there was the enigma that was her Angel. Her Phantom. Her Opera Ghost. Her Trapdoor Lover. Whatever you may choose to call him. Was he still there? Hidden away in the secret passageways of the Opera House?

"Christine.. I think you loved him."

Meg's words still echoed between her ears, and aggravated all of Christine's senses like water that had gotten into her head.

"I.. I need to know the truth.. I need a conclusion to this tragic tale." Christine muttered to herself, wringing her gloved hands nervously as she glided through the familiar corridors, which were still in slight disrepair.

She came to the dressing room she had once called her own, her hand coming to rest on the burned, wooden frame. She stepped through, into the dim enclosure, hardly realizing the words that came from her own mouth, "If only to know.. If the music is truly over for us both.."

Across the room, she was met with her own reflection, gazing back at her like a ghost who remained on earth only to find her lost love. Christine shivered at the thought, but her eyes could not be shaken from the fogged over glass of the mirror. Smoke from the fire must have left that stain.

The former Opera singer approached her reflection and rose a hand to touch it's smooth surface, wiping a clean streak across the mirror. Her white glove would be stained with the soot.

"In sleep he sang to me.. In dreams he came.. That voice with calls to me.. And speaks my name.."

"Erik.. How could I have left you here? I truly am a coward.."


	4. In the Room of Antiquity

**Chapter 4:**  
**In the Room of Antiquity**

****

The darkness hung above him like a nighttime sky lacking stars and moon, and the crisp feel of the night air. When once he would embrace this obscurity, he only now greeted it where he lay motionless with the utmost apathy and indifference.

In the distance, he could have sworn he had heard her voice once more. "In sleep he sang to me.. In dreams he came.. That voice which calls to me.. And speaks my name."

His golden eyes smoldered in the black wall, only seldom allowing a slow uncaring blink. His lips were slightly parted, only forming the shape of words, slowly and with grief, he repeated the words silently to himself.

"..In the dark, it is easy to pretend  
That the truth is what it ought to be.."

* * *

"So it is true. You have returned to the Opera house." Madame Giry's tone was surprisingly cold as she scribbled something on a parchment of paper, not bothering to look up from her minor task and greet the girl.

Christine blinked once, surprised by the Madame's sudden aloofness upon her return. "Y-Yes Mame.. Have I come at a bad time, perhaps?"

Giry let out a soft sigh and finally looked to her former student with her tired eyes. Everyone at the opera seemed to have those eyes now. "No, of course not Miss Daaé.. You are always welcome at the Opera Populaire." She spoke calmly, "I am sure Firmin and André will be thrilled to see you once more.. Just be prepared to have contracts thrown at you every which way. It's actually a miracle those two haven't abandoned the house yet."

"No-No I haven't come to sing." Christine interjected.

"Oh? Than why have you come?"

"For a visit."

Giry fell silent again, she then stood turning her back to Christine and dusting off the lap of her dress. "Why must you do this..?"

"Pardon?" Christine asked, perplexed. "What is it that I am doing that seems to offend you?"

"Not me." The woman hissed. "I suggest you leave before he realizes you are here."

Christine's heart jumped to her throat suddenly. _He..? _ "Madame, do you mean?"

"You know very well who I mean. Do not try to play dumb with me, mademoiselle."

"So he's alive!"

"That is none of your concern, obviously." Mme Giry turned to face Christine now.

"…. Where is he?"

"That is something that remains a mystery to even me."

Christine looked at her with pleading eyes, as hard as she tried she could not make her heart slow, instead it only continued to quicken. "Now, if you will excuse me Mlle Daaé, there are many things for me to attend to." Mme Giry brushed her, and walked through the doorway behind the girl.

Christine didn't know whether to feel joyous or terrified. Could she have just walked straight into a trap that Erik had been leaving for her the past 6 months? Yet, it seemed if she had, she would have heard his voice by now.. But it was as if he had just disappeared. There was only one way to know if he had just up and left, but the thought of taking the dangerous excursion filled her with a most dreadful fear.

Yet, it felt like a trip she must take.

* * *

Le Vicomte de Chagny stormed into the Opera furiously, immediately he called to the nearest person "Where is Christine?"

The man only looked at him with a combination of confusion and aggravation. "I do not know this Christine you speak of. I have no time for this!" The man tore away and stalked off with his supplies.

Raoul's angry and petrified eyes ripped about the large room until they finally came to rest on an André and Firmin who were busily instructing one of the workers how to build a new addition to the opera house. When André caught sight of Raoul, his face lit up in excitement and he walked immediately over to welcome the Vicomte, but was greeted with nothing more than the cold glare he wore on his face.

"Vicomte, whatever is wrong? You look as if someone has just been murdered."

"Perhaps they will be if I do not find them! Monsieur André, please tell me, where is Christine?"

"Christine?" André scoffed, "I have not seen her since 6 months again at our final performance! How ever am I to know where she is?"

"She is here, Monsieur." Mme Giry spoke up from behind the gentleman, looking as proper as always. "I spoke to her only a few moments before."

"Where she is now?" Raoul demanded, he had to get to her before the monster could! If that monster still existed, that is. How could Christine do this to him? No doubt that horrible man had somehow gotten to her and tricked her into returning.

"I am not entirely sure as of this moment." Giry surmised smugly, "But I last spoke to her in my office."

* * *

She descended the aged passageway, her only light being the small candle she had found in her old dressing room. Christine's hand stayed to the wall as she slowly journeyed down into the abyss she had once called her prison.

_This is the only way to know this nightmare, this dream, is truly over.. _She kept telling herself so in her mind, as if to justify what it was she was doing. And if he was still there? What then?

She stopped. This was ridiculous! What was she doing here? Even if he _was _there, he had not bothered her for so long.. She remembered the kiss they had shared, and how he had turned her away to save her own innocence from the approaching mob.

Perhaps it was not for closure she went down these steps for.. Perhaps, all the while, she had regretted the choice she had made.

However.. Did not the kiss she had so willingly given the Phantom been enough to exhibit her true choice? Did he not demand she run?

Something pushed her onward, down into the darkness. Down into the depths of her heart and soul.

* * *

Christine had made it onto the boat and was clumsily pushing herself along with the old oar. It had obviously not been used for very long and had rusted in the moisture of the air, the lanterns on the tip of the small boat had also suffered the wrath of the water, their doors incapable of opening without oiling first. So now she pushed herself through nearly overwhelming shadows, the flickering of her pathetic candle the only radiance to light her way. All of this made the already difficult task of pushing the boat through the water by herself even harder.

When she heard the bottom of the boat scrape along the rock of land, concern overtook her. There was still no light.. No candles, no lanterns. If anyone still lived down here - He lived in complete darkness.

After groping along the ground, she found many pieces of discarded metal and objects. Just before giving up and turning back, she stumbled upon one of the old candelabras and lit the candles that were still planted within it's arms.

Christine gasped at what she saw before her.. It was ruin. The once beautiful abode was now nothing more than shell of its former glory. The organ was covered with dust, the golden artifacts dirty and damaged. The red velvet curtains were shreds hanging from the ceiling, and the swan bed she had once slept in was broken and battered. One would never recognize this hole as the infamous Phantom's lair if they had ever seen it

Surely it had been the mob that had caused this wreck.

Slowly, she made her way over broken glass, wincing at the sound it made beneath her feet and prayed her thin shoes would be enough to keep the shards out. As she walked, she felt her foot tangle on something - a fabric. Looking down, she realized it was the wedding veil Erik had given her. Tears forced themselves to her eyes as she bent to retrieve the gossamer veil, as if to rescue it from evil.

"Erik.. What has become of you..?" She spoke quietly to herself, holding the candelabra in one hand and the veil to her chest with the other.

As her eyes ventured the heartbreaking room, she came to a shattered mirror wherein was a passageway. She followed through hesitantly, but her drive to find him only increased. After what seemed like ages, she came into a room where a coffin lay on the ground among cobwebs and ruined curtains.

However, the only thing in that entire room which caught her attention, was the shape of a man, clad in black, slumped against the far corner.


	5. Lavender

Chapter 5:

Lavender

"Erik!" Christine cried out in the darkness, hardly even realizing she had done so until she heard the echoes of her own voice. But he didn't move.

Was he dead? Was this nothing but the corpse of her former teacher and guardian? She was so scared to know the answer she almost turned and ran back the way she had come.

No! She would not resolve to cowardice again! He might really need her right now.. What was she thinking? This man was a monster! Yet, as she forced the very thought into her mind she could not help but shudder at herself, and the feeling in her gut could easily induce vomiting.. Perhaps.. A part of her heart did and always would belong solely to him, as much as she tried to deny it to herself and everyone else. It was true.. She had never been able to feel entirely comfortable with the idea of "giving herself" completely to Raoul.

She moved forward, fighting all hesitation that pulled at her will. Upon looking closer, she found he had one hand clasped tightly over the right side of his face, but his eyes were closed and he remained completely motionless.

"God no…" Christine quietly sobbed under her breath, and a quivering hand moved to touch the man's cheek. He was so cold.

* * *

There was a warmth on his face, and he didn't know why. But he could not find the strength to open his eyes. Much less of a reason. Perhaps it was the true heat of Hell as he finally began to pass out of this treacherous life. Somehow, Hell seemed like it would be a relief.

No. This warmth was comforting and protective. It made him feel, for the first time in months, as if he were finally at peace. But when the thought of Christine's similar warmth came once more to mind, he could do nothing but curse.

Yet another taunting illusion, no doubt..

"Say you'll share with

me one

love, one lifetime . . .

Let me lead you

from your solitude . . ."

A quiet voice sang in the darkness that was his mind. The memories of Christine and the Vicomte de Chagny drifting away from him in the boat on the lake shredded at what was left of his heart like a million daggers. It was, after all, _her _voice he heard. But that boy sang not a word. Where was he?

There is no hope! Forget her you fool!

"Say you need me

with you

here, beside you . . .

anywhere you go,

let me go too -"

His eyes suddenly opened and he sat up from where he lay, almost in a rage. He had to make the singing stop! What he saw around him though, made him wonder if he was still dreaming.

Candelabras were lit around him, having been repositioned on ruined trunks that had been turned over, there were a few piles of junk that could never be repaired, and the pieces that had been salvaged were placed neatly around the lair. The sheets of the music he had written so long ago were now stacked on a table when only a day before they had been scattered all across the floor.

He realized he was no longer in his 'bedroom' but rather the main room that overlooked the lake, and he was now lying on the dirty velvet of the old bed there.Beside the bed laid the persian musicbox, and one of his white half masks, recently cleaned. How had he gotten here? Who dared enter his home? Someone obviously had, as he had not lit a candle himself for months.. He didn't want to look in the shards of mirrors and risk even catching a glimpse of that withering carcass of a man.. So he had lived in complete darkness for many weeks, or months.

His cloak, coat, and gloves had been removed and folded neatly on a table not far away. Beside them was the wedding veil. Beyond that was the organ, where sat a beautiful girl dressed in lavender.

Rage. Hate. Love. Rejection. Confusion. They all surged into him simultaneously and he found himself far from the indifference he had experienced for over 6 months.

The girl turned to look at him with sad, soft eyes.

"Hello Erik."


	6. Without a Voice to Call You

A/N: Sorry for the delay in updates. I've had a busy past few days. Though, during that time, I got to see _The Barber of Seville_ at our city theatre. Trés bien! I looked for Erik a bit, but no luck. -sigh- Anyway, here we go.

* * *

** Chapter 6:**  
**Without a Voice to Call You**

"Hello Erik."

He couldn't believe what he saw before him - sitting on the organ's bench. Clad in lavender, her auburn hair pulled back in loose curls, her blue eyes gazing at him with an emotion that felt very foreign to him. Though it seemed all emotion was foreign to him now.

Should he be angry? Should he chase her away?

The "ghost's" lips tried to form her name - "Christine.." - but no sound came out, only air escaped his throat. Then, he suddenly realized his face was exposed and quickly scrambled for the mask that laid on the bed stand beside him. He pulled the porcelain piece over his face, rising to his feet swiftly.

Christine watched him, her own version of confusion displayed on her fair façade. She had been prepared for angry shrieks, for anguished sobs, even helpless insanity - But not for silence! Why had he not spoken to her! In turn, she rose to her feet taking a hesitant step forward. His back was turned to her now, wide-eyed and staring at the opposite wall. Like a child aroused from a nightmare, convinced if he did not look at the monster he had conjured in his dreams, it would be gone when he looked back. But Erik. Erik did not look back.

She continued towards him; gradually down the steps and towards where he stood next to the once luxurious bed. The closer she got, she could see his shoulders trembling. Was it a tremble of pain? Of anger? Did he weep? She knew he must be very sick.. Indeed, when she had discovered him in the secret room, he had been even thinner than she had known him to be - He had even, somehow, accomplished becoming even _paler_ than before. She had assumed him sick, and at first glance thought him dead, but had come to find he still breathed.

Reaching out with a shaking hand, she touched his shoulder lightly.

"Erik.. I-"

But confusion gave way to anger, and he turned quickly slapping her hand away from him in a fit of anger. How dare she return! Things had not worked the way she had dreamt between she and her idiotic Vicomte, no doubt. Erik would be no second-choice, no back-up - He would be NO one's emergency fail-safe! Not even for this one - Not even for Christine!

He told himself these harsh words, and yearned to yell at the top of his lungs to this girl, but again- Could not find his voice. As Christine recoiled in sudden fear, he turned on his heel and stalked out into the water of the lake beside his house. He was weak from lack of food, and his head swam, his eyes blurred. But he was fueled with a river of emotions - And he had to get away! He scrambled for the boat, ripping through the water as if it were the true offender itself.

Christine watched him, her eyes wide. He stumbled in the water, woozy from the sickness he must have obtained from his malnutrition. All her fear was forgotten once more, and she followed him into the water, whether it soaked her favorite skirt or not. The girl suddenly lunged at his arm, holding onto it tightly like he were about to walk off a cliff and she was trying to save him.

"Erik! You're sick!" She exclaimed finally. "I know you must be angry with me - You have every right to be! But can you not wait until you have regained strength to express it so?"

He froze, stiff as a statue at the feeling of her arms around his own. Why did she concern herself over his health? It was none of her business after all. He entertained the idea that her Raoul had been killed somewhere along the way, and now she returned out of desperate loneliness. After all, only in desperation would someone ever come to him in their own free will and without any reason but business. Ah how he wished to spite her with his _own _death! Then, perhaps, she could know the pain of true loneliness!

"Erik.. Please speak to me.. Say something." Christine pleaded with him as he slowly turned his face to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her head rested on his shoulder as she clung to his arm. His heart melted.

_Christine_ - His golden eyes widened. It was then, his fury was rekindled and he ripped away from her disappearing into the shadows that hovered over the lake. Leaving Christine bewildered and weeping in the waters of the lake.

His passionate anger had not been refueled because of Christine, or her actions, but because he had realized when he had tried to say her name:

He was without a voice.

The Music of the Night _was _truly over after all.


	7. Music Box Ballerina

A/N: To avoid any confusion, a brief reminder - This story is based _mainly _on the musical, with only bits and pieces of the Leroux book thrown in. For example, in this story Christine has auburn hair - I am quite aware that in the book, she is blond. But on the contrary, in the musical she never learns Erik's name, but here I've allowed her to know it, but no one else save for Mme Giry. I hope this will prevent any confusion. Oh, I also want to say thank you to everyone who's reviewed thus far - and sorry for the slow updating.. Busy week. I'll try to speed up as soon as I can. )

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** Chapter 7:**  
**Music Box Ballerina**

"Where could she have gone?"

Raoul called out in frustration and worry. Of all places for her to decide to visit during his time away - it had to be the Opera Populaire. Was the monster still here? If so, what would that _thing_ do to Christine if he found her? Was she in danger?

The Vicomte caught a breath in his throat at the mere thought of Christine in the hands of that madman.

"What will that horrid man do to Christine if he finds her?"

Mme Giry stood across from him, her hands linked together at her lap as she attempted to keep her temper with the raving, young man. "I assure you, monsieur, she will be just fine. Erik will not hurt Chris-"

"Erik! So the monster has a name now!"

The elderly woman frowned, "I understand your concern, but there is really nothing to worry about."

Raoul remembered suddenly that it was Mme Giry to lead him down that faithful night to the Phantom's 'lair'. _She_ was the one who seemed to most often turn up with notes from the allusive specter - And after all was the one most responsible for his very residence in the cellars!

"Is he alive, Mame?" Raoul suddenly inquired, his blue eyes fixed on the woman sternly, but with a hint of pleading. "Is 'Erik' still in the Opera?"

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Meg Giry had lived within the Opera for nearly her entire life, if not all. Her fondest memories were those that had taken place in the corridors that thrived with music by day, and were silent by night.. Well, for the most part. 

She could still remember the day when her mother had brought a tiny auburn haired girl to the house.

Young Christine Daaé and 'Little' Meg became very close, very fast, and were quick best friends.

She had always known shortly after the girl's arrival, something strange began to happen to her. Yet, Meg had never questioned it. She noticed many times at night, Christine woke in a start. During rehearsals, Christine would sometimes go into a daze as if someone spoke to her. And the girl even would claim to hear someone calling her name during some of the most unheard of moments.

Then, the handsome Vicomte soon arrived, Christine disappeared, and it was like all Hell broke loose!

The "Phantom" they had all known and feared - Though many treated as nothing but a joke - suddenly showed himself to the entire cast and crew not long after Daaé's disappearance and reapperance!

The notes he sent - His appearance at the Masquerade Ball as 'Red Death'.

And then there was his very own Opera; _Don Juan Triumphant._

Everyone had seen how the main character, Don Juan, went from fat to thin in only a matter of moments, and his voice suddenly became phenomenal! As Meg had watched from the wings, there had been no doubt in her mind that _this_ was the Opera Ghost. - The one who, in all his despair, tried so desperately to make Christine love him.

The girl didn't understand. What had drawn him so strongly to _Christine_?

It had only been a few days from when Meg had visited her friend for the first time since her flight from the Opera house, and the words that had come from Christine's mouth left her in such puzzlement that she had no focus on anything but Christine, and the thought of O.G himself.

Everyone had been convinced that the man was dead and gone. His harmless tricks had stopped, along with his letters. There was no mysterious music in the night. No romantic tales of dark figures in Box 5. No disembodied voices in the darkened corridors.

Meg herself had been in his lair only to find that he was gone - His mask left behind. Yet.. She could not be convinced it was all over.

Mlle Giry walked silently down one of the many shadowed hallways of the Opera House, it had been a long and hard day of rehearsal with the _corpse de ballet _and her mother. Even though there was still no production in the work, Mme Giry was still sure to keep them in shape. The only reason they had gotten away was because of the rumor that Christine had returned to the Opera and Mme Giry wanted to see for herself.

Meg was very tired and every muscle in her body ached. It was on days like these she truly missed the companionship of her friend Christine, who would always have found a way to take her mind off of the aches and pains.

As she rounded a corner, she found herself face-to-face with the tall doors of the 'Diva's dressing room'. Where Christine had stayed for several nights before the Opera's final performance. Meg was far too tired this evening to entertain any idea of trying to find her way into the mirror as she had so long ago, but before she could completely make her way by - Came a sound from within the room.

It had been like a creak. A door opening, something sliding across the floor, it could even have been the sound of someone sliding to the floor.

Her fatigue was slowly being replaced by curiosity, and dare she say fear. Turning back to the room, Little Meg opened one of the doors slowly, peering into the dusty dressing room. It was just the way as it had been for 6 months - Save for a small strip of light on the opposite wall.

_What is this..?_ Meg thought to herself as she slowly made way towards the light - and her reflection. The strip was alongside the mirror.. The door had been opened. Which could be no mistake - The secret passageway did not open easily from the outside, even after searching for many weeks Meg had never been able to find the trick to opening it. But here it was.

Her excitement filled in her chest, and Meg quickened her pace quickly linking her thin fingers through the slim opening and pulling it to the side gently. What she found on the other side made a gasp escape her lips and her heart stop for what seemed to be an eternity. "E-Erik..?"

The man was sitting against the wall, his hand to his face as if to soothe a headache. The pounding in his head refrained him from hearing anything else, and his vision was blurred - All he could see was a white figure peering down at him suddenly.. A ghost? An angel? He wasn't sure. He didn't care. Perhaps it was only a hallucination in and of itself! He would have chuckled if he had a voice.

Yet, all he could think of, was Christine standing waist deep in the water, watching after him helplessly and pleadingly. Why had she come? And now, he was slumped so pathetically against the wall in the passage way to the dressing room, agonizing in this ridiculous illness!

Meg knelt beside the man hesitantly, as if afraid it was nothing but a ploy and he would suddenly strike out with the Punjab lasso, but found he made no acknowledgement of her presence. He was deathly pale.. Reaching out with a petite hand, she very lightly touched the side of his face and almost pulled her hand back at the heat there.. This man was very ill.

But Ghosts don't get sick, do they?

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A/N: Not the best place to leave off, I know, but I've been working on this chapter for a few days now and feel it's time to get something posted. XD 


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